


The Arcane Apprentice

by Lhugy_for_short



Series: Lhugy's Giveaway Round 2 [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Ardyn is not a creeper chill, Bosmer Prompto, Consensual Sex, Dunmer Ardyn, M/M, Magicka enhanced sex, Pining, Skyrim AU, Sorcerer/Apprentice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 22:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhugy_for_short/pseuds/Lhugy_for_short
Summary: Raised in Solitude on the stories of the tavern songs, Prompto dreams of a bigger world; a world of dragons, of orcs, of magic. He dreams of escaping the walls of the Imperial city and seeing Skyrim for himself. He dreams of becoming a mage, the most powerful in history - but to do that, he's first going to need to find himself a teacher.





	The Arcane Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sailorfuckthisshit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorfuckthisshit/gifts).



> My first attempt at hashing out an FFXV Skyrim AU :) This started as a request from Sailorfuckthisshit on Tumblr, who won my second giveaway and requested a Promdyn sorcerer/apprentice fic! Mymind immediately flocked to Skyrim and, well, here we are. Consider this an introduction to what will (hopefully) become a much bigger story in which Noct is the Dragonborn and shenanigans ensue. 
> 
> For now, I hope you enjoy some not-creepy consensual Promdyn smut! I had fun writing this!

 

There had always been an endless supply of rumors at the  _ Winking Skeever _ in Solitude, but the war brought in fresh recruits, new faces, and more far-fetched tales than ever. 

Most of the locals paid little mind to the drunken soldiers who stumbled in after dark, looking for mead and spewing talk of  _ dragons _ and  _ vampires _ and  _ barrow wights _ . What did these young men from Cyrodiil know of the ways of Skyrim? It was the snow, they laughed, gone to their heads - or perhaps too much skooma, bartered off the Khajit who sometimes prowled outside the city walls. 

Whatever the source of the rumors, they were typically dismissed as quickly as the locals could hear them. 

But not everyone at the  _ Winking Skeever _ was a native to Solitude, or even to Skyrim. Prompto Argentum was one of only a handful of Bosmer living in the Imperial stronghold, and had been working at the tavern since he’d been old enough to reach the counter and pour a pint. Orphaned, unable to remember a home or a life before the snowy shores of the northern seas, the world as he knew it was confined to the stone walls of the city around him. 

Thus he’d been raised in large part on the stories of adventure that passed through the inn, hanging on the words of the soldiers and sailors who told them. Their tales brought the rest of Skyrim to life, conjured up images of beasts and sorcerers, of far-off peaks and the depths of ancient tombs. Through them, Prompto learned of races besides the elves and the Nords - that there were lizard-men, Argonians of the Black Marsh, and powerful Orcs who had long ago dwelled in the Dragontail Mountains. He learned, too, of the legendary Guilds, where those of talent sought to hone their skills and become masters of their crafts. 

One place in particular had always caught and held his fascination. Less a guild and more of a school, the College of Winterhold seemed like something out of a dream. There, it was said that great mages learned to call upon up powerful spells, and delved into the arcane teachings of old to create potions, magical weapons, and even commune with the Daedra. What Prompto wouldn’t give to see it for himself! To walk the halls of the great library, and to see the Master Sorcerers at work! Magic had gripped his imagination, and despite the odds it refused to let go. 

There was only one spell he knew. He’d found it in an old, musty tome in the cellar of the  _ Skeever _ , buried under barrels and sacks and forgotten ages ago, and had barely managed to make out the words in the dim light. But the magic had flowed through him easily - a slight tingling that started in his head and moved slowly down his neck, his shoulder, to his left hand where the sensation gathered into pinpricks of light on his skin. After weeks of practice, the lights had coalesced into a perfect sphere which he could summon on command, and he’d never needed to bother carrying a candle with him ever again. 

But performing a parlor trick of a spell and studying real, practical magic were two very different things. The College was a dream too far out of Prompto’s reach, yet there were other ways, it seemed, of learning the things he desired. All he had to do was step outside the walls. 

The new rumor he heard whispered at the hearth spoke of a mage; a mysterious Dunmer who had traveled from Morrowind seeking Arcane knowledge in Skyrim’s crypts. Having shunned the teachings of the College, he’d set up a sanctuary of his own not far from Solitude, in the marshes to the west of Morthal. According to one Khajiit who had passed through, his sanctuary was surrounded by a plethora of magic traps; only the most determined would make it through to the keep. 

Prompto knew he at least had to try. 

He turned his back on the  _ Winking Skeever _ in the dead of night, wrapped in thin, blue robes and nothing but his foster father’s hunting bow strapped to his back. With little gold and even less of an idea where he was heading, Prompto stole away from the city and across the narrow sea.

Morthal had taken less than two days time to reach on foot, thanks to the sturdy roads and signposts along the way. And Prompto had been lucky - the wolves he’d spied from the path hadn’t caught his scent, nor had anything larger bothered to come down from the mountains in search of an easy meal. He arrived before dusk, and spent the last of his coin on a warm bed and warmer porridge. The next morning, he began his search. 

There were the usual warnings, the “ _ none-come-back-alives” _ in effort to dissuade him, but Prompto pressed on anyway. He trudged out into the swamps and waded through water the color of ink. Swatted away insects as large as the house cats back in Solitude, until at last he came upon a stone fortress in the middle of the marsh.  _ This has to be the place,  _ he thought. Yet despite the rumors of traps, of barriers, of danger, he found only a simple garden out front, and flowers lining the path to the door. 

Cautiously, he began to approach.

Near the entrance, movement caught his eye. Something in the garden, hunched, back to him. Prompto swallowed.  

“E-excuse me?” he called out to the figure. “I’m here to see the sorcerer. The one they call Izunia, is he here?” 

More movement, the shape grew larger. Divided. Whatever they were, there were now two of them. 

Panic rising steadily, Prompto edged closer to the door. “I-I’ve come to ask him about magic. I want to learn...how to…. _ Oh, shit.” _

The first of the figures drew itself up fully and turned, revealing hollow eyes in a face of bark, and long, twisting antlers.  _ Spriggans.  _ Of  _ course _ they were bloody Spriggans, and he’d been fool enough to try to  _ talk to them! _ It would almost be laughable - if not for the fact the two fey were already coming for him, their branch-like fingers stretching out to close the distance. 

Prompto drew his bow as he stumbled back. It wouldn’t do him much good now, of course; they were too close and gaining before he could even nock his first arrow. But as one of the Spriggans grabbed for his arm, he swung out wide and threw it off balance. “Woah! Get back! I-I don’t want to have to hurt you!” The second one dove forward then, barely missing his shoulder, its claws digging instead into the sleeve of his robes and tearing the fabric clean off. “Please!” 

“A fire spell ought to do quite nicely, I should think.”

The voice came from somewhere close and above him, but Prompto didn’t have time to locate the source. Still struggling to fend off the attacking Spriggans with nothing but the curve of his bow, the elf yelped out his answer. “I don’t know how!”

“You don’t? Well, why not call your Familiar to lend you a hand?”

“I-I don’t --” Prompto paused to kick at a root-like tendril that was starting to snake up his leg. “I don’t know that one, either!”

The voice from above seemed to  _ tut. _ “Curious. You came here seeking training yet you show no aptitude for magic. What spells _ do  _ you know, boy?”

More roots were coiling around him now faster than he could fight them off. One of the Spriggans knocked the bow from his grasp and in the opening went straight for his throat. Its fingers like branches twisted and tightened around his neck. Squeezing, coiling, forcing the breath from him. Surely, this was the end - he’d made it to the doorstep of his dream only to fail before he could see it through. No doubt the people back in Solitude would laugh to hear how he’d died, as useless as ever. 

He was smiling as the branches began to close over his face. 

“I asked you a question, boy.  _ What magic can you do? _ ” 

It was probably stupid. His dying act would be a parlor trick, performed for a formless voice in the middle of a swamp. Still, his left arm was free, and so he raised it up almost without thinking. The familiar tingling started in the back of his head, worked its way down the path of nerves toward his palm, at last building into points of light at each fingertip. The energy formed a ball, a perfect sphere that pulsed in time with the canter of his heartbeat. Slower, slower, the roots were suffocating him, his lungs ached and his chest burned, and he was going to --

A laugh, neither friendly nor cruel, but decidedly arrogant as it broke through his final thoughts. “Release him,” it said, followed by a snap of fingers. Suddenly, almost instantaneously, the Spriggans’ roots shrank back and they scattered off into the marsh as quickly as they’d come. 

Prompto sucked in a breath of air, collapsing to his knees on the ground. Coughing, gasping, he hardly noticed the approach of more human-like footsteps until the man was nearly upon him. 

“An elfling? Now this really is a surprise.” Wide, blue eyes glanced up to catch the shadowy face of the Dunmer hovering over him. His skin was a light shade of grey, darker near the hairline where curls the color of rich wine were pulled back in a bun. His eyes, an unusual shade of honey-yellow, danced in amusement even as he reached out a hand to help Prompto to his feet. “Don’t tell me you’ve come here all the way from Valenwood, my Bosmer friend?” 

Dusting off his robes at the knee, Prompto kept his eyes locked in suspicion on his apparent host. “No, Solitude,” he answered flatly. “Are you Izunia? Why didn’t you call those things off sooner?”

Full lips curved into a grin. “I am, but please, call me Ardyn.” The Dark Elf threw a single arm around his shoulders and began to lead him toward the front door of the keep. “And my pets were merely doing their job - namely, protecting this sanctuary from powerful enemies who mean to do me harm.” 

“Your...pets? Those Spriggans are your  _ pets? _ ” 

Ardyn ignored his question in favor of sweeping a hand out over the surrounding marsh. “They are the last line of defense in my homemade security system. In fact, I’m amazed you were able to make it past all the traps without more advanced wizardry.” 

Prompto eyed the underbrush suspiciously as his throat went dry.  _ Traps? _ Ultimately, he decided it was was better  _ not _ to tell Izunia he’d gotten through on pure luck. “Why do you try so hard to keep people out?” 

With a chuckle, Ardyn steered them both once more toward the door. “When you know the things I know,” he said, and brushed his fingers over the knob. The sound of at least a dozen locks clunking open stilled the young elf’s breath. “You learn not to trust anyone. Come, you look half-frozen. Let’s get you a dry pair of boots, hm?” 

Why Ardyn chose to trust  _ him  _ was a mystery that plagued Prompto’s thoughts in the days that followed. The Dunmer showed him a level of kindness he had hardly expected, going so far as to lend him a set of robes (dark black, and thicker than his own) and share his meals. And while Ardyn was a strange man - stranger even than the outlanders who had sometimes strayed into his tavern, drunk and babbling about dragons and myths - Prompto found him fascinating. His magic, for example, was a constant presence, whether he was playing with flickering embers on his fingertips while he talked, or levitating books in front of him so that he could read and strum his lute at the same time. Even the orbs of light he conjured were far more brilliant and beautiful than anything Prompto had ever managed. 

It only spurred his curiosity further. After three days, Ardyn had yet to address the real reason Prompto had come to him - and so there was no choice but to bring it up himself over breakfast. 

“I want to be your apprentice,” he announced quite suddenly, hands nervously twisting together in his lap. Across from him, Ardyn let his bread roll float back down to the table before he quirked a brow. “That’s why I came here, why I left my home and risked my life to find this place. I want to learn everything you know.”

“ _ Everything?”  _ came the incredulous reply. 

“Yes. Magic, alchemy, history, how to play the lute -  _ everything _ .” 

Ardyn scoffed, and kicked his boots up onto the table as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m not in the business of taking on students. Especially ones as unschooled even in the basics as you.”

_ But...?  _ If that was the case, why had he been allowed to stay? Why hadn’t Ardyn let those Spriggans kill him when he had the chance? There had to be a reason, something Ardyn saw in him, or at least something he stood to gain. 

Prompto steeled himself and tried again. “I’m a fast learner. I won’t get in your way, and I’ll work hard. Please give me a chance?”

“If you’re going to keep on like this, then I’m afraid my hospitality has run out.” All amusement drained from Ardyn’s face as he once more dropped his boots to the floor and stood up. “I expect you to be gone by afternoon tea.”

“Ardyn, wait!” Scrambling to his feet after the mage, Prompto reached him just inside of the doorway and grabbed for his sleeve. “Please, I’ll do anything! Cooking, cleaning, I can be your servant.”

“I thought you wanted to be my student?”

“Y-yes, when you think I’m ready. Please….” His voice trailed off, but his eyes were pleading. At some point, perhaps without realizing it, he’d let his fingers fall from Ardyn’s sleeve down to grip his hand instead. That was were the Dunmer’s eyes were drawn, expression unreadable at the sight of the contact. 

When at last he answered, he didn’t meet Prompto’s gaze. 

“You may stay on the condition that you study on your own. Show me in a month’s time that you possess sufficient aptitude and perhaps I’ll reconsider.”

And so it went that Prompto became the apprentice-hopeful of Master Izunia. Though he wasn’t asked, he still chose to spend his mornings tending to the work around the fortress (and there was more of it than he had imagined). He tended the fires, swept the floors, cleaned the soot and grime from cold stone walls. He even cooked when Ardyn allowed it, proving to him that homemade food was far more appetizing than that which could be conjured magically from the Beyond. 

In the evenings, he kept his promise to study. Ardyn allowed him access to a portion of his library, and all the spells books and historical accounts a novice mage could ever want. After a week, he had learned to cast flames and bolts of lightning from his fingertips; by week two he was able to summon his own Familiar (the outlines were still shaky, but he could tell it was a small fox); and by the third week, he had managed to successfully brew a magicka potion without setting any of the ingredients on fire. 

At last, the month drew to a close. It was a rainy night when Ardyn entered Prompto’s chambers unannounced, sat down in the chair next to the fire, and without preamble told him to show him what he’d learned. 

Prompto knelt down on the rug at his feet. He’d been preparing for bed, and the nightgown he wore rode up over his knees, his thighs as he stretched his hands into the air. A deep breath, then he called forth a flame, small at first, like the tip of a candle wick, dancing on his left palm. It flickered out suddenly, then reappeared in his right hand, larger and stronger. Prompto curled his fingers around it and blew once into his fist - the flames burst to life, a veritable fire raging in a perfect sphere in the palm of his hand. From the chair, Ardyn said nothing; his frown was enough. 

Swallowing, the young elf tried again. He called his fox Familiar next, let it jump and run around the room before commanding it to sit, to roll over, to stay. It placed its paw - an ethereal hologram of magic energy - into Prompto’s hand, and he looked up to his Master for any sign of approval. But Ardyn merely sneered. 

“You’ve spent a month teaching your pet tricks?”

He tried everything. Lightning spells, ice spells, levitation - everything he had learned over the last four weeks and then some - but his Dunmer Master still appeared unmoved. By the end of his presentation, the moon had all-but set, and Prompto was tired, strained, and close to tears. 

“That…. That’s all. That’s everything,” he sighed, bowing his head at Ardyn’s feet. “I have nothing left.”

The warm fingers on his cheek surprised him. 

Ardyn had never touched him before, had, in fact, avoided physical contact as much as possible. Yet suddenly those long, dexterous fingers were moving over his face, curling around his chin and tilting his head up to meet bright, yellow eyes. Ardyn didn’t smile, but neither did he wear the same cold, aloof expression with which he’d watched Prompto’s show. Instead, he guided the young elf back up onto his knees and leaned forward to meet him halfway. 

“Your hands,” he said quietly. Prompto couldn’t blink, couldn’t seem to let go of that powerful gaze as he brought his hands up to Ardyn’s lap. All of his hopes, his dreams, rested on this moment. “Good. Why don’t you show me your Candlelight spell?” 

“... _ That one? _ But there’s nothing special about it.” 

“Try.” 

Swallowing back his reservations, Prompto summoned the familiar tingling sensation.  _ Strange _ , he thought, as the lights traveled down the length of his arm with more speed and energy than ever before.  _ I haven’t practiced this one in a month and yet --  _

The ball of light hovering above his palm was bright, glittering, beautiful. His eyes widened as he watched it lift into the air and grow in the space between him and his Master. 

“Magic comes from the soul. It isn’t an incantation, it isn’t born of the words we utter when we recite a spell.” Those fingers were back, this time cupping Prompto’s own hands as Ardyn lent him his own strength. Power flowed into him, lifting the hairs on his arms and stealing his breath, and the orb of light that hovered between them pulsed with renewed life. “As  _ you _ grow, so does your ability to tap into the magic that already flows in your veins. The more you learn, the deeper your roots stretch into the Arcane. Do you understand?” 

Blue eyes were wide, as wide as Prompto’s mouth which trembled with every panted breath. The magic felt...amazing. Exhilarating. His every nerve was alight with it, and still Ardyn continued to feed him more. Without realizing it, Prompto had twined his fingers with the Dunmer’s and was leaning closer to him, drawn in by the taste of something powerful, something  _ great _ . “Y-yes. It’s...perfect.”

A low chuckle. “Magic is far from perfect. But it is addictive. If you aren’t careful, it will consume you in both mind and spirit.” Ardyn’s fingers folded with his. Those yellow eyes were still locked on him, full of curiosity, and something else. Prompto could feel it stirring in his own chest, moving lower until his thighs were shaking and his toes curling atop the rug. “You, my dear, have  _ such a bright spirit _ . It shows in your spells. It is why the Fox came to you as a Familiar. You have great potential, but you must learn control, as well.” 

The energy had begun to overwhelm him, pounding like a drum in his ears even as his entire body shuddered with it. He felt as if Ardyn’s fingers were no longer wrapped around his own, but moving all over his skin instead. Travelling over his chest, his back, over the mounds of his ass and between his thighs, all at the same time. A dozen hands touching him, taking over his body more and more with every panted breath.  _ Gods _ , it felt incredible. His eyes were still open wide when the first moan spilled from his lips, unbidden and untamed, and his hips rolled forward of their own will. 

“Ardyn…!” he gasped, fingers tightening around the hands that still clasped his. “What...are…?” 

“You’re the one controlling it, Prompto.” 

If he could have flushed any warmer in that moment, he might have burst.  _ He _ was doing this?  _ He _ was guiding the magic -  _ Ardyn’s magic -  _ over the length of his own cock like a lover’s touch? But how? How could he do such a thing without even meaning to…?

“I’m going to let go.” 

“A- _ ahhh…! P-please,  _ don’t....” 

When Ardyn spoke, his voice was close, much closer than Prompto was expecting, and he shuddered again. “You must earn it.”

He pulled away. The contact was broken, and with it the energy that thrummed through his body went out as suddenly as his Candlelight. In its wake, Prompto was left gasping, trembling, his lust still hard and desperate between his legs, terribly unsatisfied. He looked up, pleading with his Master to give him another taste, but Ardyn was already moving toward the door. 

“This was your first lesson,” he began, voice oddly thin. “We’ll try potions tomorrow.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Another month passed. Two. Time seemed to slip like water through Prompto’s fingers, something he could neither grasp nor control as it flowed in a constant stream. Each day was filled with chores, more than ever now that Ardyn had officially accepted him as his apprentice. He still cooked and cleaned when he could, but more often than not he was sent out to gather ingredients for his alchemical training. Strange plants, insects, berries that grew only in the snowy reaches of the foothills a half day’s march from the swamp. 

Prompto kept his head down and worked without complaint. It was the only way, he found, to relieve the tightness in his chest when he was near his Master, or to forget the lust he’d felt when Ardyn’s magic had pulsed through his veins. He craved it, of course, and spent many a sleepless night desperately trying to recreate the sensations on his own; but the energy that flowed from his fingers around his cock was never enough, never ignited him in the same ways, and ultimately he slumped against his pillow in defeat. 

If Ardyn noticed the hunger that churned in his gut, he said nothing. 

Near the middle of the third month, once Prompto had begun to show true mastery of the basics, he was again visited in his private chamber after dark. Wordlessly, Ardyn bade him to follow, leading him down to the first floor where the smoldering fire left the stones cold against his bare feet. His Master spread his hands. 

“The time has come for your to put what you’ve learned to use. Attack me.” 

Blankly, Prompto stared as if he had misheard. “I...sorry?”

Ardyn rolled his yellow eyes. “Attack! Go on, you won’t hurt me, I assure you.” 

That was probably true, but the idea of turning his magic against someone - even in practice - didn’t sit well with the young elf. He hesitated. “But why?”

This time, his Master’ frustration manifested in the form of a crackling in the air, the hairs on Prompto’s arms spiking with the power of it. “ _ Why?  _ What do you think magic is for, if not this? Now, last chance - attack!” 

Eyes squeezing shut and nerves as wavering as the flames that shot from his hand, Prompto did as he was commanded. Heat burst forth, swirled around Ardyn and licked at his robes; but by some miracle he remained just beyond their reach. No, not a miracle - he’d cast a Ward, channeling his magicka energies into a protective shield around himself and easily deflecting Prompto’s flames. 

Still, he seemed pleased. “Good, good,” came his voice, vaguely distorted from behind his magical barrier. “Now an ice spell - quickly!” 

Prompto buried his flames, summoning a bitter coldness in their place. Not missing a beat, he shot a series of ice shards at his Master, encouraged by the harmless way they shattered against his Ward. And he smiled. Without having to be told, he switched to a summoning spell, conjuring up two elemental atronachs in quick succession for Ardyn to disperse. 

“Yes, Prompto! Good!” Ardyn’s yellow eyes were shining, his lips pulling back in perhaps the first genuine grin he’d shown since Prompto’s arrival. “Now defense.”

The Bound Sword was in his Master’s hands before Prompto even saw him utter the spell. Bright, shimmering, a nearly-solid weapon formed of pure magicka and just as deadly as a real blade. The young elf’s heart pounded with fear, exhilaration; he managed to block the first blow with a Ward of his own just in time, but Ardyn came at him again, and again. 

The energy swelled. Prompto felt it surging through his veins, heightening his every sense as their sparring continued. He knew, of course, that Ardyn was going easy on him, that if he really intended to hurt him it would be over before he could blink. But the knowledge didn’t lessen the thrill of it, and soon Prompto was giving back as good as he got. At every opening he cast an elemental attack, used his Illusion spells to throw confusing shadows about the room, until even his Master was breathless and laughing. 

Prompto couldn’t say exactly when things changed. One moment, he had Ardyn’s sword caught between two ice shards, the next he was leaning forward to kiss him. 

Lips met and the energy in the room surged. As one, all of the spells - the Wards, the weapons, the chill - vanished, leaving nothing but the two of them behind in the center of the room surrounding by residual magicka and the sounds of their mouths sliding together. Prompto’s arms found Ardyn’s shoulders, and his own body was pulled in close, held firmly in place with those hands once more moving over him. It was as if the momentum of the fight had carried over into this, as well - neither knew or cared how to slow down.

Robes were opened. Prompto’s lips followed Ardyn down, his knees locking on either side of solid hips and atop the fur rug. Beside them, the fire once again roared to life, but Prompto didn’t stop to admire it - he was too focused on the energy pumping through him, filling him with power, with desire, with  _ greed _ . He wanted -  _ no, needed _ \- more of it, and this time he was prepared to do anything to chase it down. 

Already breathless, his moan was hardly a whisper as he rocked his body against Ardyn’s, and felt his Master’s hardness as plainly as his own. Again, and again, each time drawing sounds from the Dark elf’s throat he’d never imagined possible, the hands on his hips tightening in time with his pace. Ardyn hissed something into his mouth. A tingling sensation passed through him like a wave, and then a wetness, cool and yet not uncomfortable, conjured between the cheeks of his bare ass. 

_ Magic?  _ Were there spells for this sort of thing, too? Prompto supposed there must be, if the oddly pleasurable stretching in his muscles was any indication; Ardyn’s hands were still clasping at his hips, and his cock was a constant warmth against his thigh, which meant that the pressure suddenly gliding into him like slickened fingers was….

“I’ll teach you the spell some other time,” his Master hummed, before guiding him back down desperately against his lips. 

Prompto clung to him as his moans were swallowed one after the other. 

His body shuddered as he was stretched and opened by an invisible set of hands. Between his and Ardyn’s hips, his own cock jolted with energy, with the sensation of being touched, being  _ consumed.  _ The Magicka they shared was amplified everywhere skin met skin, and in every kiss, every breath that passed from one mouth to the other. At last, when those formless fingers pulled out of him, leaving his hole dripping and terribly empty, Ardyn held him close as he rolled him onto his back, kissed him and folded thin, pale legs around his own waist. Plunged into him fast and deep enough to push Prompto’s breath from his lungs in a desperate, shuddering cry that shook the very stones of the walls. 

“Your energy,” Ardyn’s voice came in waves next to his ear. “It’s remarkable. Like nothing I’ve ever seen.” The words barely reached Prompto’s mind. His body trembled, his fingers clenched to leave half moons carved into dusky flesh. With his Master’s length inside of him, he was filled with the true power of the Magicka that flowed between them, as if the connection had been perfected at last. It made him dizzy, almost drunk on the smell, the tingle of the Arcana flowing through his veins. 

Ardyn must have felt it, too. When he began to move, dragging his cock back out of Prompto, it was with agonizing slowness; the magic was too strong a force, too powerful as it pulled him deeper. 

“More,” Prompto rasped, his nail scratching lines of angry red down his Master’s back. “ _ More.” _

_ Addictive. It will consume you.  _ But the warnings were forgotten in favor of sating his need.  _ Their  _ need, for even Ardyn could no longer resist the will of the Arcane. He held Prompto tight and gave into forces beyond their control, fucked him as years,  _ decades _ of isolation crumbled at his back. This young Bosmer - his  _ apprentice _ \- had enchanted him as surely as the Magicka that held them both thralls to its will. 

“ _ More, more, Master, please. _ ” His blue eyes were all but black, swirled with a fevered light as he bucked his hips up again and again. Was he close? When this was all over, would the spell be broken? Would their connection snap like the wick of a candle that had burned too hot, too fast? 

Ardyn’s chest tightened in fear; yet he couldn’t hold himself back. He bent the young elf near in half, pressed his knees into his chest and thrust into him until the sound of skin slapping skin reverberated off the walls of the chamber. Filled him deep enough to send his eyes rolling back and his mouth to fall open in a wordless plea. 

Prompto screamed as he came. Screamed as if a fire had surged up to consume them both, ripping through his body in powerful flares. Spilling out as residual energy into Ardyn’s own frame until his mind felt numbed by it; head swimming, vision a blur, he reached climax deep within Prompto’s heat, and then remembered nothing more.

 

* * *

 

Morning came in greys and blacks. Rain fell against the side of the stone fortress, wind rattled the shutters, the doors, whisked papers off of desks and sent them fluttering down empty hallways.

The hearthfire had long since gone out. Prompto awoke cold and shivering, naked atop a tangle of robes on the floor. Alone, aching; hollow. Memories of the night before surfaced, dissipated, slipped through his fingers like smoke. Something was wrong, and yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was missing. 

A knock startled him out of his confusion. Visitors? On a day like this? How had they gotten past the traps? The knock sounded again, loud and booming from the floor above, and Prompto hastily pulled on his robes again even as he scrambled to his feet and made for the staircase. 

He reached the doors just as the fist on the other side came down for the fourth time. 

“Sorry, to keep you, waiting!” he panted, throwing open the handle and coming face to face with -- 

\-- a young, black-haired, rain-soaked Nord and broad, armored, very displeased looking Orc. 

Prompto’s voice fell flat. His eyes widened, and he rocked back on his heels in the entrance way. 

Thankfully, the Nord seemed not to notice. Or at least didn’t bother to take offense, as he casually flipped a rogue lock of damp hair out of his face and nodded his chin in Prompto’s direction. “Hey. Are you Izunia? We’re here looking for a powerful sorcerer to join our quest.” 

“Um?” Wide, blue eyes swept from the young human to the Orsimer behind him. He (Prompto assumed  _ he  _ was a  _ he _ , but since he’d honestly never met an orc before it was difficult to say, really) had yet to make eye contact, and was instead glaring around at the fortress and surrounding swamp as if everything about it pissed him off even more than the rain. 

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then?” Sighing, the Nord drew a yellowed sheet of paper from out of the folds of his vest and promptly handed it to the orc. “Coulda sworn this was the right place. Maybe that guy in Morthal was full of shit, after all.” 

“Told you we should’ve snapped his neck and been done with it,” the orc huffed, his voice as rough and grumpy as the rest of him. Without another word to the man - or to Prompto - he turned on one large boot and started off the porch. The Nord shrugged, made as if to follow, until the sound of the blond finally finding his voice halted them both. 

“I’m not Izunia, but he’s my Master.” Two pairs of eyes were on him then; deep, violet blue and and unexpectedly bright honeyed gold. “I, um, don’t think he’s here right now,” Prompto continued as he self-consciously tightened his robes around his chest. “But you can wait inside for him to get back. If you like. What are your names?”

A warm smile, and the Nord offered his hand. “I’m Noct. The ugly musclehead behind me is Gladio. We’re on a quest to slay dragons.”

Prompto gaped. “ _ Dragons?” _

“Yep.” Noct smiled wider. Held up his left hand, upon which sat a heavy, onyx ring in the shape of a winged lizard devouring its own tail. In it was set a crystal that glittered with an inner light as he explained, “I’m the one they’re calling the Dragonborn.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more discussion about this Skyrim AU and plans for the main story, head over to [my Tumblr](http://lhugbereth.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
